


A Covenant before the Lord

by WishingStar



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Kiss, Flagrant misuse of Bible quotes, Fluff, I'm even more surprised than you are, M/M, Normally I'm all about the angst and period authenticity but it just didn't fit anywhere, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, There is actually zero homophobia in this fic, or BEST use of Bible quotes?, so enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 02:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4162197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WishingStar/pseuds/WishingStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David, of Biblical fame, was an undersized fighter with the heart of a lion. His friend Jonathan "loved him as he loved his own soul." Steve finds it flattering to be compared with David, but really, why is Bucky so fixated on their story?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Covenant before the Lord

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valmora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/gifts).



> Valmora requested recs for fics written around this theme. I sort of accidentally took the request as a prompt.
> 
> Bible quotes are from the King James Version. I considered switching to the Catholic equivalent, which the Internet tells me is Douay-Rheims, but it didn't have some of the exact words I wanted. Go go gadget creative license.

Bucky wedges himself between two trash cans near the back door of the bar, where Steve is huddled with his chin on his knees. Steve shifts to make room. Bucky might rail at him for getting into this situation, but Steve needs a friendly face.

"Any reason Big Ben Stewart in there is callin' for your blood?" Bucky asks in a tone conveying more resignation than interest, with enough drunken slur to mask any concern he might feel.

"Yeah," Steve says grimly. "He threw a beer in Freddy's face. So I threw mine in his." Steve slipped out the back while Stewart's less-intoxicated friends tried to calm him down, but it sounds like they haven't succeeded. This isn't blowing over. Steve sighs and rolls his shoulders. "I'll go back inside in a minute."

"You'll do no such thing," Bucky counters, before presumably remembering who he's talking to. "Aw, what am I saying, of course you will. Why d'you always have to pick the biggest guys you can find?"

"It's not my fault they're the ones that cause trouble."

Bucky rubs his face. "I'm not sure I can help you with this one, pal. Don' get me wrong, I'll try, but somethin' tells me he's gonna wipe the floor with both of us."

"You stay out of it." Steve has no excuse, he should have learned by now. But somehow he still assumes, anytime he starts a fight, that he's only risking himself. "Like you said, there's not much you can do. I can't ask you to take a beating for no reason."

"Good thing I'm not waiting for an invitation. What's our plan of attack?"

"Well." Steve surveys the cramped space. "Some kind of weapon would be helpful."

"First thing when this is over, we're getting you a slingshot."

Steve's surprised by the tug of a smile at his own lips. "Are you calling me King David?"

"No, I'm calling him Goliath. Slayer of who-the-hell-knows-how-many good guys before he got taken down by a lucky shot. But seriously, you can't go in there with a weapon. Stewart'll think you're trying to kill him, and then he'll try to kill you. I mean really kill you. Sayonara, Dav—uh, Steve Rogers."

"Good point." Steve frowns, considering. He can't go in empty-handed, either; that's a recipe for broken bones. A defensive weapon, then. His eyes light on the two trash cans in front of them. "I got an idea."

~*~

Bucky proclaims it a goddamn miracle, that he and Steve took out Big Ben with nothing but a couple of trash can lids, and only one shiner between them to show for it. Bucky's got the shiner; Stewart swung at both of them, but he misjudged Steve's height and the blow sailed right over his head. Steve privately credits their victory to the alcohol in Stewart's system, not to any sort of divine retribution. Then again, he and Bucky weren't entirely sober, either. Maybe they had a little help, he concedes, laughing.

He laughs again, the next morning, while wolfing down a bowl of oatmeal. Bucky has already gone, but he's left Steve's mother's Bible in the middle of the dining table, with a scrap of paper on top. _1 Samuel 18:6-8_ , Bucky's untidy scrawl says. Steve finds the passage and reads:

> _And it came to pass as they came, when David was returned from the slaughter of the Philistine, that the women came out of all cities of Israel, singing and dancing, to meet king Saul, with tabrets, with joy, and with instruments of musick. And the women answered one another as they played, and said, Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands. And Saul was very wroth, and the saying displeased him; and he said, They have ascribed unto David ten thousands, and to me they have ascribed but thousands: and what can he have more but the kingdom?_

Bucky agrees that he's David, Steve thinks triumphantly. And apparently that he can out-fight a king and women will one day sing his praises, neither of which ring true from where Steve is standing, but it's a nice sentiment. Steve should respond in kind. Unfortunately Steve's shift at the grocer's starts in ten minutes; he can't afford to flip through the enormous book to find the perfect quote. _Psalm 23_ , he scribbles, because it's the one he knows offhand. _The Lord is my shepherd,_ et cetera. David wrote the Psalms, didn't he? And Steve figures some humility is in order.

When he returns home that evening, Bucky has come and gone as he does most nights (when he's not hanging around trying to convince Steve to go out with him), but a new scrap of paper awaits on top of the Bible. Steve picks it up.

_Lazy slob, everybody knows that one. Give me something personalized. Like so: 1 Samuel 20:42_

Steve reads:

> _And Jonathan said to David, Go in peace, forasmuch as we have sworn both of us in the name of the Lord, saying, The Lord be between me and thee, and between my seed and thy seed for ever. And he arose and departed: and Jonathan went into the city._

Steve hefts the Bible and carries it into their shared bedroom, where he settles in bed to study it. If Bucky wants personalized, Steve will give him personalized. If Bucky fancies himself as Jonathan—the son of Saul, Steve vaguely recalls, which would make him heir apparent to the throne of Israel, how'd David end up as king, anyway? Steve is foggy on the details—he'll find something nice that David says about him.

He rereads the tale of David and Goliath. He reads through King Saul's jealousy and recurring attempts on David's life, and how Jonathan protected David time and again. Loved him, the archaic language insists, and Steve tamps down the niggling voice in his head that wonders how much he should read into this. Bucky loves him like a brother. So did Jonathan love David, it says so in 2 Samuel 1:26:

> _I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women._

And the line about _passing the love of women_ should absolutely not make Steve blush like it just did. Is he a grown man or isn't he? Anyway, he can't use those words—David composed them upon learning of Jonathan's death in battle, which is a topic Steve intends to strictly avoid, what with the war in Europe getting worse all the time.

The trouble, he reflects as he flips back through the pages, is that the Bible tells David's story. Much ink is spilled regarding Jonathan's feelings (love) toward him, but David always had some bigger problem on his mind than expressing his reciprocation of those feelings. The best thing Steve can find is a reference to David weeping as he's forced to leave Jonathan's home, and that verse has other... things going on that might... give Bucky the wrong idea. Bucky loves him like a brother. Steve accepts that, gladly.

(Incidentally, David gained the throne independently of Jonathan's death. Jonathan had already promised him the kingdom. Steve considers this important, though he can't pinpoint why. Hates to see one friend benefit from loss of the other, he supposes. Hates to construe that loss as necessary.)

Steve punts, in the end; he can't find a verse that fits. Instead, he writes _Personalization? Fine, Psalms 23: 4_ and draws arrows pointing to the 4.

> _Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me._

Not true blasphemy, he assures himself, just a convenient double meaning. He never actually specified who _thou_ refers to.

 _Thank you,_ he adds in afterthought, again without specifying further.

~*~

Another morning, another breakfast, another response from Bucky: _1 Samuel 20:14-15_.

> _And thou shalt not only while yet I live shew me the kindness of the Lord, that I die not: But also thou shalt not cut off thy kindness from my house for ever: no, not when the Lord hath cut off the enemies of David every one from the face of the earth._

Jonathan again. Bucky's committed; Steve will grant him that. And he's gone and brought death into it, despite Steve's best effort—though technically Steve mentioned it first, he supposes. Fortunately, the talk of houses and enemies brings to mind a verse Steve remembers from last night's reading. It's out of context, not spoken to Jonathan, but the gist is close enough:

> _Abide thou with me, fear not: for he that seeketh my life seeketh thy life: but with me thou shalt be in safeguard._

_1 Samuel 22:23_ wobbles slightly under Steve's pencil. It feels impossibly presumptuous, to offer Bucky reassurance, to say _fear not_ , the hundred-pound weakling will _safeguard_ you. But didn't Bucky ask for reassurance? Wasn't that the meaning of _thou shalt not cut off thy kindness_? Has Steve taken their little game too far? Bucky chose a story fraught with emotion; Steve has read the designated excerpts for surface meaning, but their raw intensity has seeped under his skin and stirred up something undefinable. He swallows hard. Debates changing his response.

But unless he wants to fall back on Psalm 23 a third time, he'll need to leave it. He's run late for work again.

That evening, he holds his breath and flips to the newest appointed verse. 1 Samuel 20:4.

> _Then said Jonathan unto David, Whatsoever thy soul desireth, I will even do it for thee._

Oh.

Oh, that's... devoted.

What on Earth can Steve say to that? Nothing. Not without breaking the rules. He's scoured the chapters between their meeting and Jonathan's death, and now he does so again; nowhere does David say what Steve would like to say, which is—which is—

Wrong. Steve is a coward, that's all.

He chooses 1 Samuel 18:23, which fits imperfectly, figuring it for an escape clause. If Bucky takes offense, Steve will say he's misinterpreted, that Steve ran out of ideas and it didn't mean much anyway. If Bucky doesn't take offense...

Well.

> _And Saul's servants spake those words in the ears of David. And David said, Seemeth it to you a light thing to be a king's son in law, seeing that I am a poor man, and lightly esteemed?_

Clearly, Steve is expressing confusion as to why Bucky should care for him so, so _lightly esteemed._ Not Steve's fault that David married Jonathan's sister. He considers extending the passage, to the place where _it pleased David well to be the king's son in law_. But the lines in between deal with chopping foreskins off Philistines, which conjures up some gruesome images that don't quite fit the appropriate tone. If there is an appropriate tone. If Steve hasn't shot himself in the foot.

He sleeps poorly that night, waking several times from uneasy dreams of fighting giants. The giants smile politely, but they keep trying to snatch Bucky away from him. Steve can't say which are worse—the dreams that feature Bucky wounded and unconscious, or the ones where he follows the giants willingly. The last time, Steve wakes to quiet shuffling in the kitchen. It's earlier than usual, and Bucky hasn't left the apartment yet.

Steve waits in bed anyway, so as not to risk interrupting Bucky while he reads the Bible passage. When the front door shuts, Steve ventures out faster than he'd like to admit.

The Bible remains on the table, but the note is gone, and no new message has taken its place.

Steve is lucky not to get his wages docked, that day; he's horribly distracted and keeps miscounting change at the register. Bucky saw his note but left no response. Is Bucky appalled? Or simply contemplating his next move? Maybe he's scraping the bottom of the barrel for quotes, as Steve was, and ran out of time. Steve should wait before he panics. But what if Bucky parsed it out—David as son-in-law to Jonathan's father, no mention of sisters anywhere—what if Bucky never meant it that way? He didn't, Steve berates himself, he loves Steve as a _brother_.

He'll go home and tell Bucky that was all he meant; brothers by law. And no, he isn't asking to step out with Becca. It's a thousands-of-years-old Bible verse, sheesh, it doesn't fit their lives exactly. He'll say that.

After work, Steve opens the apartment door and looks immediately to the dining table, hoping for some hint as to Bucky's reaction. He sees—and stops dead, heart-hammering worry transmuted into something else.

Bucky hasn't written down a verse. He's reenacted one.

A neatly-folded shirt, which Steve recognizes as Bucky's, rests atop the Bible. A white cotton undershirt sits folded on that, topped by a coiled belt. Moving closer, Steve finds a folded half-sheet of paper resting on the belt, which features hastily-drawn sketches of a sword on the front and bow and arrow on the back.

> _And Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that was upon him,_ Steve's memory supplies, _and gave it to David, and his garments, even to his sword, and to his bow, and to his girdle._ 1 Samuel 18:4. _Because he loved—_

Different verse. Wrong verse. That was the verse before. Steve's mesmerized, mind spinning its wheels. He gathers the pile, Bible and all, and turns toward the bedroom. Bucky's clothes are cool but still damp under the sleeves, and Steve should find that distasteful, right? He won't sniff them for Bucky's scent. Who thinks of another guy's sweat as a 'scent', anyway? Dear God, this had better mean—what, what does he think this means?

Bucky sits upright in bed, reading a pulp novel. His own blanket covers him to the waist, and he's thrown Steve's blanket around his shoulders but left it open in front, baring his chest. When Steve enters, he looks up and dog-ears a page to mark his place.

"Oh, good, you're home. I was getting chilly." He lets Steve's blanket fall, as if that's a normal, socially accepted thing to do. Steve has seen him shirtless before; how can it possibly be this distracting now?

"Are you wearing pants?" Steve blurts out and promptly wishes he could take back—but no, he doesn't. He needed to ask, needs to know. It's imperative.

Bucky's smile straddles the line between sheepish and mischievous. "I don't think the guys in ancient Israel wore pants."

Steve can't handle this. Can't process it. He sets the clothes and Bible on the bed to avoid dropping them.

Bucky's smile fades; he lowers his eyes. "I thought you might laugh."

"Was there a joke?" Steve asks, and his voice is too loud, too forceful.

Bucky presses his lips together, like he's thinking hard, or nervous. Steve can't imagine nervous, there's no point—Steve's nerves are jangling enough for both of them.

"There's a right and a wrong answer to that question," Bucky says slowly, "but I'm not sure which is which."

They stare at each other until Steve's aware, dimly, of shaking his own head. He's forgotten the question.

Bucky wordlessly lifts a hand and offers up a crumpled half-sheet of paper. Steve takes it in a daze: _1 Samuel 18:1, 1 Samuel 18:3, 1 Samuel 20:17, 1 Samuel 23:18_.

Steve knows them. He knows, he's read each one a dozen times by now, but he grabs the Bible regardless, unwilling to mistake even a single word. He knows—

> _And it came to pass, when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul—_
> 
> _Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because he loved him as his own soul—_
> 
> _(And Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that was upon him—)_
> 
> _And Jonathan caused David to swear again, because he loved him: for he loved him as he loved his own soul—_
> 
> _And they two made a covenant before the Lord—_

Steve has no pencil. He can't write with no pencil. He peers haphazardly about the bedroom, in senseless places where no pencil should be. Bucky chews his lip and waits. It's no good. Steve flips pages and passes the open Bible to Bucky, pointing a trembling finger at the verse that caught his eye from the start.

Bucky reads, and his knuckles whiten on the pointed leather corners of the book. He raises his eyes to Steve's. "Not the weeping part, I hope."

"No." Steve shocks himself by speaking in a normal voice. "Not that."

"And I can't imagine you bowing to the ground ever, much less three times."

"Not that either."

Steve watches the minute movements of Bucky's face and neck as he gathers his courage. He could say something. He already has.

"The, uh," Bucky ventures in a paper-dry rasp. "The part in between those."

"Read it," Steve whispers.

Bucky clears his throat. "First Book of Samuel. Chapter twenty. Verse forty-one." He takes a breath. " _And as soon as the lad was gone, David arose out of a place toward the south. And fell on his face to the ground, and bowed himself three times._ And they— _and they kissed one another,_ and— _and wept—one with another_ —" His eyes dart to Steve again. "I never took you for all talk and no action."

Steve's heart has left his chest; it floats somewhere over their heads, lifting him, making his body light. He props one knee against the edge of the bed and swings the other leg over to straddle Bucky's thighs. "This," he breathes, dizzy, taking Bucky's face between his hands. "This, Buck, this—this is our covenant."

Bucky cups Steve's chin in one hand and traces the curve of his jaw. "Till the end of the line," he offers.

 _"Yes."_ Those are Bucky's words, not Jonathan's, not anyone else's. And suddenly Steve isn't David anymore; they're not play-acting Bible stories anymore; they're Steve and Bucky, two kids from Brooklyn, love and promises all their own. Steve leans forward, head spinning, and seals his lips to Bucky's.


End file.
